Beautiful
by Team Jem Carstairs
Summary: Sleeping with Sherlock Holmes was the most beautiful thing John Watson had ever done. Slash, PWP.


**Just a short little thing I came up with a week ago and forgot to write down until right now, at one in the morning. Oh well. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Moffat, Gatiss, Cumberbatch, Freeman.**

Having sex with Sherlock Holmes was the most beautiful goddamn thing John Watson had ever done. It wasn't that the sex was so outstanding or anything; frankly, John had had much better partners, ones who knew how to tease and when to submit instead of dominate. It certainly wasn't because of some profound connection the two of them shared, some forbidden love, some grand secret affair. Everyone knew they were shagging, and that was all it was– a way to get convenient release.

No, it was simply that the insufferable git was more beautiful than he had any right to be, especially during sex. He was already a stunning specimen of a man, so lean and lanky, so pale and angular, with those fluffy ebony curls and eyes that had galaxies in them. His mouth was the perfect shape of a bow, and when it was stretched out in a moan (or stretched around John's cock), it was a glorious pale pink heart.

Sherlock, as anyone who knew him would be unsurprised to discover, liked to top (_of course he does, anyone who's ever met him won't be surprised that his unbelievably dominant personality carries over into the bedroom_), and John actually liked that too, because then all he had to do was watch. And watch he did.

He watched as slim hips (_God I love those hips_) rolled smoothly against his in the steady pounding beat of drums. He watched as a leanly muscled back arched and curved in pleasure. He watched long, slender hands grip at the sheets in fits and starts, occasionally hard enough to pull it out at the corners. He watched that porcelain skin flush uniformly scarlet and become slick with sweat (_though even that bit isn't a given, the wanker, sometimes he doesn't break a sweat at all_).

John does, of course, prefer to watch his– Sherlock's face (_I don't know what to call him. We're more than friends, more than flatmates, but not boyfriends or anything like that. The term "lover", though probably accurate, throws me off_). He watched those curls grow wild and damp until they stuck out in a halo around his face. He watched those eyes squeeze shut, that mouth part in a perfect 'O' shape, and then he remembered again that no experiment ever done in that flat was as loud as Sherlock bloody Holmes having an orgasm, with his low baritone moans shaking the walls.

It's when those eyes opened and locked onto John's (_much less spectacular_) dark blue ones, that plush mouth lets out breathy pants, those narrow, bony hips stilled, that's when the good doctor would realize that somehow, when he was too occupied watching the man above him, he had already come, the stuff cooling and drying where it was splattered across his belly.

And it wasn't as though this was a rare occasion, an outlier in the data– despite being in his mid-thirties, Sherlock was absolutely, frustratingly insatiable, and, irritated by John's inability (_I'm nearly forty, Sherlock_) or unwillingness to keep up (_Sherlock, no, I have work in the morning_), would often resort to getting himself off. John liked watching that as well, because Sherlock was always beautiful; hand flying, hips thrusting up into thin air, harsh breaths he let out when he was trying to keep quiet (_when he thinks I'm asleep, bless him. He fails, but he tries_).

Now, just to get one thing straight: despite living with and sleeping with the most gorgeous man he had ever seen, John was generally not displeased with his own appearance. He saw the same thing in the mirror every morning: stocky build, shorter-than-average stature, smooth blonde hair, deep cobalt eyes that looked brown in low light, still-tan skin, and worn hands. He even thought he could be good-looking, given the correct circumstances. But for him, and for almost everyone else, sex was a rough, hot, loud, messy endeavor, always had been; sex, along with his temper, was what brought out his passionate side.

There was only one person John had ever met who could make sex like an art form (_and not from a shortage of data, all right, I had the nickname Three-Continents Watson for a reason_). This person, of course, was Sherlock Holmes, the most beautiful goddamn man John had ever seen.


End file.
